Discussion
Chaps,
My brief account of spectating at (and unexpectedly competing in) drag racing at Texas Raceway, near Fort Worth. We called in during our trip to the US GP (described in some detail here: http://www.motorcardiaries.co.uk/2014/us-gp-circui...
Hope it's of interest.
Andy
It seems something of a waste to travel all the way to America and see only one race meeting during the fortnight of our stay. We decide to hunt around for some local racing – midgets, drag racing, quarter mile stockers, whatever really. By good fortune, Texas Raceway is hosting a low-key drag meet the night we fly into Dallas. Bludgeoned by jet lag we saddle up our Chevy Cruze and go in search of some authentic Friday night racing.
I love learning about the history of racing in the States. While wealthy patrons sponsored the likes of Carroll Shelby to pilot European sports cars, at a more grass roots level, local youths would meet up and drag race their hot rods on city streets. This scene gave rise to guys like Mickey Thompson and that habit of tuning dirty great V8s is one the colonials just can’t kick; and thank heavens for that.
We arrive at Texas Raceway under cover of darkness. It’s 8pm, the air is thick with tyre smoke and the ground is being gently massaged by seismic V8 thunder. The smell of cooking meat adds an extra dimension to an awesome sensory experience – and we’ve barely stepped out of the car.
Texas Raceway is not Goodwood, and it’s certainly not Monaco. It’s raw and honest – the crowd is small but passionate. The beers are flowing and there’s hysteria down on the startline with every fresh race as bets are placed. It’s like the atmosphere at a Muay Thai fight, there’s that sense you always get at a drag race that a little of the outlaw spirit remains in everyone. As a middle class chap from rural Cheshire you can imagine how well I integrated.
This is an arrive and drive night and the variety of machinery is bewildering. GM’s equivalent of the woeful Vauxhall Frontera shares track space with savage 1,000bhp Pro 5.0 monsters. The big guns bring trailers but most competitors have driven under their own steam. Drive down, stick on some numbers and go racing – it’s a simple and entertaining formula. What a way to spend a Friday evening; sure beats watching Corrie.
The ace up the sleeve of Texas Raceway, rather surprisingly, is its food. The burger and fries we receive rank as perhaps the best we ate all holiday – in fact the beer-battered fries are the best chips I’ve ever eaten. Spa-Francorchamps move over, there’s a new global race track potato champion. If you ever find yourself in Texas, even if you hate drag racing, go to Texas Raceway for a portion of fries and a cheese burger; they defy superlatives.
Having enjoyed a few of the opening races and eaten the world’s best chips, we take a tour of the paddock. Illuminated by floodlights, it’s relaxed and earthy. There’s no telemetry here and I don’t recall anybody analysing data on a laptop. Fat tyres, many cubic inches and giant superchargers make for a simple formula. The cars, on the whole, are very well turned-out. The big bangers are delivered on trailers, with small travelling workshops for tweaking, but many of the cars are obviously everyday road cars so the drivers simply lounge with their pals between bouts. It’s all pretty chilled.
Our host for the evening is track owner Cindi McMillan. Her father was a well-known pro drag racer back in the 1970s and the family owned the famous Green Valley Race City drag strip in Smithfield, Texas. Cindi has an infectious enthusiasm for her sport and her track. We watch several races from the observation tower while she and her team explain the intricacies of drag racing – and try to accuse us of bringing Ebola to Texas. We soon set the record straight.
I’m rather surprised when Cindi challenges me to a race: her Jeep vs my rental. It doesn’t require much deliberation. They say the fastest car in the world is a hire car so why not prove it where it matters: in the white heat of competition? I'm not given sufficient time to tune the carbs or alter the tyre pressures on our Chevy Cruze before I'm edging onto the strip. s
t, I'm about to enter my first drag race.
Being only vaguely conversant in the intricacies of drag racing, I muddle my way through the pre-stage and stage procedures. The crowd on the startline are as bewildered by this turn of events as I am; even so they continue to place bets on the race. I glance across at Cindi, an expert in sports psychology, who is baiting me relentlessly. I turn away from my adversary and visualise the run ahead. I need to concentrate: I’ve been awake for 24 hours and the Cruze delivers a savage 100bhp punch.
The Christmas tree lights illuminate in turn and suddenly we're off. I make what might be best described as a tepid start. Fearing I might blow up the little shopping wagon, I hold the Cruze on the brakes with my right foot before moving it over to the throttle. I know that a real drag racer would’ve used left-foot braking but I daren't for fear of detonation.
The automatic gearbox slurs through its ratios like a drunk’s recital of Auld Lang’s Syne. Cindi's long gone, the Jeep leaping off the line with athletic prowess, powering up the track miles ahead of me, mocking me with its ludicrous square rump disappearing towards the finish line. The ignominy: I’ve been thrashed in a race by a girl in a Jeep.
Still, I cross the line at a heady 64.99mph and the adrenaline is – to my amazement given the modest terminal speed – pumping. What a rush! I'm handed the paper slip reporting my defeat. I’d reacted in barely half a second and the elapsed time for the 1/8 mile is 11.259 seconds. I'm ready for revenge.
We arrange a second bout, to a delta this time around. We each pick a time and whoever was closest to his/her respective time would emerge victorious. Awash with adrenaline, I decide I’d be quicker second time around and go for 11 second dead. Cindi similarly lowers her target. This is a true grudge race.
Back on the startline and the betting continues furiously around us. Not unsurprisingly I'm the subject of considerable mockery among the locals. This time I decide to throw caution to the wind and engage manual over-ride so I can run each gear out to the red line, enjoying every rev the Cruze can offer. I avoid making eye contact with my adversary and adopt my best thousand yard stare; nobody can touch me.
The lights go green and off I shoot. This time Cindi is setting off after me as her shorter delta time means she is blasting towards the horizon a second later. I'm away, revs screaming around to the limiter. I pull back on the sequential shift. Nothing. The angry choking of a highly tuned engine fills the sky as the little Chevy bounces impotently off the limiter, progress abated. I'm momentarily panic-struck, fumbling desperately for a gear. Suddenly second has engaged and we're shooting for the finish line once again. I can’t believe anybody makes a sequential shift with a ‘push for up, pull for down’ set-up in this day and age. I’ve been robbed.
I cross the line at a meagre 62.14mph, feeling utterly disheartened. I’ve let myself down and I’ve really let down the Chevy. I ‘cruze’ to the booth to receive my slip, certain I'm a loser once again. To my total amazement, though, I’ve won the race. Cindi was even further from her delta than I was from mine. In spite of my total ineptitude I’d managed to secure my first ever drag racing victory. The elation! I decide after such glory that it would be the perfect time to announce my retirement from the sport. I’d done it all and could bask in the glory of a 50% strike rate. Even Jackie Stewart couldn’t match that.
Texas Raceway is the perfect Friday night out. The legendary Texan hospitality is in full effect and the folk there are as welcoming as they are hilarious. The racing is fast and fun, the cars as disparate as you’ll find anywhere. I can’t wait to go back, but next time I’m renting myself a faster car and I might just be tempted out of retirement for one last glory run.
My brief account of spectating at (and unexpectedly competing in) drag racing at Texas Raceway, near Fort Worth. We called in during our trip to the US GP (described in some detail here: http://www.motorcardiaries.co.uk/2014/us-gp-circui...
Hope it's of interest.
Andy
It seems something of a waste to travel all the way to America and see only one race meeting during the fortnight of our stay. We decide to hunt around for some local racing – midgets, drag racing, quarter mile stockers, whatever really. By good fortune, Texas Raceway is hosting a low-key drag meet the night we fly into Dallas. Bludgeoned by jet lag we saddle up our Chevy Cruze and go in search of some authentic Friday night racing.
I love learning about the history of racing in the States. While wealthy patrons sponsored the likes of Carroll Shelby to pilot European sports cars, at a more grass roots level, local youths would meet up and drag race their hot rods on city streets. This scene gave rise to guys like Mickey Thompson and that habit of tuning dirty great V8s is one the colonials just can’t kick; and thank heavens for that.
We arrive at Texas Raceway under cover of darkness. It’s 8pm, the air is thick with tyre smoke and the ground is being gently massaged by seismic V8 thunder. The smell of cooking meat adds an extra dimension to an awesome sensory experience – and we’ve barely stepped out of the car.
Texas Raceway is not Goodwood, and it’s certainly not Monaco. It’s raw and honest – the crowd is small but passionate. The beers are flowing and there’s hysteria down on the startline with every fresh race as bets are placed. It’s like the atmosphere at a Muay Thai fight, there’s that sense you always get at a drag race that a little of the outlaw spirit remains in everyone. As a middle class chap from rural Cheshire you can imagine how well I integrated.
This is an arrive and drive night and the variety of machinery is bewildering. GM’s equivalent of the woeful Vauxhall Frontera shares track space with savage 1,000bhp Pro 5.0 monsters. The big guns bring trailers but most competitors have driven under their own steam. Drive down, stick on some numbers and go racing – it’s a simple and entertaining formula. What a way to spend a Friday evening; sure beats watching Corrie.
The ace up the sleeve of Texas Raceway, rather surprisingly, is its food. The burger and fries we receive rank as perhaps the best we ate all holiday – in fact the beer-battered fries are the best chips I’ve ever eaten. Spa-Francorchamps move over, there’s a new global race track potato champion. If you ever find yourself in Texas, even if you hate drag racing, go to Texas Raceway for a portion of fries and a cheese burger; they defy superlatives.
Having enjoyed a few of the opening races and eaten the world’s best chips, we take a tour of the paddock. Illuminated by floodlights, it’s relaxed and earthy. There’s no telemetry here and I don’t recall anybody analysing data on a laptop. Fat tyres, many cubic inches and giant superchargers make for a simple formula. The cars, on the whole, are very well turned-out. The big bangers are delivered on trailers, with small travelling workshops for tweaking, but many of the cars are obviously everyday road cars so the drivers simply lounge with their pals between bouts. It’s all pretty chilled.
Our host for the evening is track owner Cindi McMillan. Her father was a well-known pro drag racer back in the 1970s and the family owned the famous Green Valley Race City drag strip in Smithfield, Texas. Cindi has an infectious enthusiasm for her sport and her track. We watch several races from the observation tower while she and her team explain the intricacies of drag racing – and try to accuse us of bringing Ebola to Texas. We soon set the record straight.
I’m rather surprised when Cindi challenges me to a race: her Jeep vs my rental. It doesn’t require much deliberation. They say the fastest car in the world is a hire car so why not prove it where it matters: in the white heat of competition? I'm not given sufficient time to tune the carbs or alter the tyre pressures on our Chevy Cruze before I'm edging onto the strip. s
t, I'm about to enter my first drag race.Being only vaguely conversant in the intricacies of drag racing, I muddle my way through the pre-stage and stage procedures. The crowd on the startline are as bewildered by this turn of events as I am; even so they continue to place bets on the race. I glance across at Cindi, an expert in sports psychology, who is baiting me relentlessly. I turn away from my adversary and visualise the run ahead. I need to concentrate: I’ve been awake for 24 hours and the Cruze delivers a savage 100bhp punch.
The Christmas tree lights illuminate in turn and suddenly we're off. I make what might be best described as a tepid start. Fearing I might blow up the little shopping wagon, I hold the Cruze on the brakes with my right foot before moving it over to the throttle. I know that a real drag racer would’ve used left-foot braking but I daren't for fear of detonation.
The automatic gearbox slurs through its ratios like a drunk’s recital of Auld Lang’s Syne. Cindi's long gone, the Jeep leaping off the line with athletic prowess, powering up the track miles ahead of me, mocking me with its ludicrous square rump disappearing towards the finish line. The ignominy: I’ve been thrashed in a race by a girl in a Jeep.
Still, I cross the line at a heady 64.99mph and the adrenaline is – to my amazement given the modest terminal speed – pumping. What a rush! I'm handed the paper slip reporting my defeat. I’d reacted in barely half a second and the elapsed time for the 1/8 mile is 11.259 seconds. I'm ready for revenge.
We arrange a second bout, to a delta this time around. We each pick a time and whoever was closest to his/her respective time would emerge victorious. Awash with adrenaline, I decide I’d be quicker second time around and go for 11 second dead. Cindi similarly lowers her target. This is a true grudge race.
Back on the startline and the betting continues furiously around us. Not unsurprisingly I'm the subject of considerable mockery among the locals. This time I decide to throw caution to the wind and engage manual over-ride so I can run each gear out to the red line, enjoying every rev the Cruze can offer. I avoid making eye contact with my adversary and adopt my best thousand yard stare; nobody can touch me.
The lights go green and off I shoot. This time Cindi is setting off after me as her shorter delta time means she is blasting towards the horizon a second later. I'm away, revs screaming around to the limiter. I pull back on the sequential shift. Nothing. The angry choking of a highly tuned engine fills the sky as the little Chevy bounces impotently off the limiter, progress abated. I'm momentarily panic-struck, fumbling desperately for a gear. Suddenly second has engaged and we're shooting for the finish line once again. I can’t believe anybody makes a sequential shift with a ‘push for up, pull for down’ set-up in this day and age. I’ve been robbed.
I cross the line at a meagre 62.14mph, feeling utterly disheartened. I’ve let myself down and I’ve really let down the Chevy. I ‘cruze’ to the booth to receive my slip, certain I'm a loser once again. To my total amazement, though, I’ve won the race. Cindi was even further from her delta than I was from mine. In spite of my total ineptitude I’d managed to secure my first ever drag racing victory. The elation! I decide after such glory that it would be the perfect time to announce my retirement from the sport. I’d done it all and could bask in the glory of a 50% strike rate. Even Jackie Stewart couldn’t match that.
Texas Raceway is the perfect Friday night out. The legendary Texan hospitality is in full effect and the folk there are as welcoming as they are hilarious. The racing is fast and fun, the cars as disparate as you’ll find anywhere. I can’t wait to go back, but next time I’m renting myself a faster car and I might just be tempted out of retirement for one last glory run.
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